Krenzik's War Part 3
by TheManipulator
Summary: Written with ViperChickKaliyla, this story switches viewpoints between Jay Krenzik and Diana Thalyka, a member of President Roslin's Cabinet, who boards the Lady of Libron II to address the needs of the crew in the first few weeks after jumping beyond the


Title: Krenzik's War Part 3

Author: Manipulator and ViperChickKaliyla

Word count: 10,491

Rating: (T)

Spoilers:After "Bastille Day"

Disclaimer: BSG is property of NBC/Universal

Notes: This is part of a shared world started by ViperChickKaliyla and MRushgdi,on the Ragnar Anchorage board, telling the story of another civilian and his compatriots in the RTF. In this case, Jay Krenzik, a mechanic aboard the small freighter "Lady of Libron II." This collaborative effort with ViperChickKaliyla alternates between Jay's viewpoint and that of Diana Thalyka, a young member of Roslin's cabinet who has to go throughout the fleet and bring the needs of the fleet to the President's desk.

Another ship. 20 down, at least 40 more to go. After awhile they all blur together, some of them….most of them. My files are bulging with papers, my notes from all my visits so far. Concerns, to be taken to the President. As if she—or any of us—can do anything about most of the issues raised. People want miracles. And that's the hardest part of it all. Because we can't give them….But oh Gods, I want to be able to.

The Raptor has a hard seal with the other ship, and the airlock cycles. I look down at the top paper I have, the list of ships, with the ones I've visited already crossed off. According to my list, this ship is the Lady Libron II, a freighter registered out of--not surprisingly—Libron.

I step out of the Raptor and into the ship, shadowed by my new "companion" on this visits after the recent water crisis, one of the President's guards detailed to me for my visits thought the fleet. I push down once again the odd feeling I get knowing I suddenly important enough to have my own bodyguard. Instead, as I take my first breath of this ship's air, I resist the urge to grimace: It's nearly as bad as the air on Colonial One, and that's saying something. Still, I manage as I always seem to these days to keep a steady face, and walk forward out of the airlock. There is only one person in the welcoming party, this ship. Must be a small crew. Good. Small crews are easier. Less demands usually, if only by virtue of less people. The man in question is perhaps roughly the same age as the President, give or take a few years, and holds out a hand to shake mine. He has a firm, brisk handshake one might expect from a man like him….from his hair cut to his posture he screams "No nonsense".

"Milton Jeffers, executive officer of the Lady Libron II."

"Diana Thalyka."

I want to kick myself for forgetting to tack anything on ahead of it. Normally one might put their title afterwards as he did. But beyond knowing I am a Cabinet member she has given me no title…no Department name yet for this screwed up "Department" she seems to have newly created to handle the demands of a society in space. "Department" indeed. More like "Me, Myself, and I" so far. But as such I can't do it the other way….and I need, I think, to emphasize to some of these guys that I'm not just a random kid. I make a silent vow: My next introduction will begin with 'Secretary Diana Thalyka', or anything along those lines. Or maybe not. It's not like I care, as long as I get the job done. And maybe some of them have been more responsive to me because I don't bother to stick anything onto my name…..

He is silent for most of our journey away from the airlock and up to meet his Captain. Silent as the guard beside me, as if they were both made of stone.

He guides us into the ship's command center. It's roomy, compared to Colonial One, but every bit of space is packed with equipment, no corner, no free space is wasted. Two officers sit at their workstations. Behind them, to greet us, is a ruddy-faced, pudgy man with a thick shock of gray hair. He smiles warmly and extends his hand.

"Boy, are we glad to see you. I'm Brad Stengler, and this is my ship."

His shake is firm, and very warm. He shakes a little too emphatically, and a little too long. I have a feeling that this may not be so easy. Stengler is such a contrast to his antiseptic XO. One thing I've noticed is that being an Executive Officer takes the kind of person who doesn't mind making his subordinates angry.

As if on cue, the other two officers stand and introduce themselves. A hard-faced, older woman, who was apparently their navigator, and sparse, younger man with thinning, brown hair. I'm glad I have a copy of the crew's roster. So many names have been jammed into my mind, I simply can't remember them anymore. Even after only a few seconds.

"If it's alright with you, Miss Thalyka," Stengler tells me. "I thought we'd just let you meet the rest of the crew, who is assembled in the mess hall, for a little Q and A, and then Mr. Jeffers will give you a tour of the Lady."

I forced my lips into my best baby-kissing smile, careful to show teeth, and make sure my eyes exude as much warmth as possible.

"The Lady is over twenty years old, and we're keeping things pretty tight, but we definitely need some help," he continued, as he led me, and his flight crew down a dimly lit hallway, barely wider than his shoulders, barely wider than the aisle down the center of Colonial One.

"We have, counting the flight officers, a crew of seventeen, including seven mechanics. That may seem like a lot, but they're not only responsible for the engines and FTL, they also maintain the entire vessel. We also have three men upstairs in the warehouse, plus a nurse, and two cafeteria staff."

Good. They had a nurse. That solved on problem, as much as they or even I might wish otherwise. Ideally everyone—or even one out of every three ships for instance—would have a doctor. But almost no ship I had yet to speak to had a doctor aboard, and very few even had nurses. The fact that they did have one probably meant I wouldn't have to put this ship on my short list to make sure a doctor visited as soon as possible.

He pushed open a set of double doors, to the mess hall. Before, me in neatly arranged rows of chairs, sat the rest of the Lady of Libron's crew. 13 of the most tired, angry-looking people I had seen.

Mind you, everyone looked tired and angry. It's just that somehow these men seemed to look angrier, most likely a perception brought on by the fact that almost every single one of them was relatively fit and muscular.

The round of introductions began a new, as I was introduced to in short order the nurse, the cafeteria workers, the shipping clerk, the forklift operators, and all of the aforementioned mechanics, shaking hands with each one before finally taking a place at the table. The mechanics were all visibly older than I was, as the flight crew had been, save for a somewhat twitchy kid on the end who was clearly (to my eyes) trying to appear anything but. I spared a moment for silent identification with him, and sympathy for him. Just like me, in a way. Too young, too far, too fast…Anything to prove one's self. Anything to hold the line that must be held.

Unfortunately, from his body language, it didn't appear he was doing a very good job of it, necessarily. My suspicions of this were further confirmed by the way the older men seemed to look at him, out of the corners of their eyes….like they felt sorry for him, like they wanted to protect him, like they were concerned about the effects of the stresses of the situation on him. That might bode that he hadn't been doing so well. Or maybe it just said that they could actually afford to do so, to worry about it, to think of him as a kid still.

It isn't that way on Colonial One. From the moment those Cylon bombs killed Adar and his Cabinet, Billy and I might as well have been seasoned political veterans of age 50, in Roslin's eyes. I doubt she had known who I was—which passenger I was—when she called me in to offer me this post. She had just seen a name on the manifest, next to a Department that she thought would have produced an individual who would be a good fit for the position. And I remember how she looked up at me…slight surprise in her eyes for the briefest instant, but nothing beyond that. It didn't matter which passenger I was, to her, even though I turned out to be "the kid". Because on Colonial One, everyone pulled their weight. Everyone pulls their weight. Like seasoned veterans of age 50. Or it falls apart, and the Cylons kill us all. In a way I take a moment to envy that young man sitting near the edge of the table, that he can still act his age, no matter how much he might not want to. That people will still realize how young he is, how inexperienced he is. Useless. Useless thoughts, again, like wishing for those omelettes I saw being made on the Rising Star, or for the space on the Geminon Traveler. I push them away, as I have done with some many thoughts, so many things, and am sure I will continue to do.

As I sat down, I noticed that some of them seemed to be staring at me. I brushed the realization aside. They weren't the first people I'd spoken to in the last 24 hours to stare at me and they wouldn't be the last either. Unfortunately, from the looks on some of their faces, I also had the feeling this place might just prove the exception to the "smaller ships are easier" rule I had earlier begun to formulate…..

A lot had happened, since I met Adama on Galactica. Their water tanks blew. Scuttlebutt was that someone planted charges around them. Caffrey wrote that off. The warship took a 50-megaton hit before picking us up. The structure was probably just weakened by the blast, and the tanks were going to blow, sooner or later.

Tom Zarek, who euphemistically called himself a freedom fighter, was given control of the Astral Queen, after holding Galactica crew and a presidential aide hostage. I wondered how effective this new government was going to be. None of us were too happy about this, but the prisoners were out there in pressure suits patching Galactica. At least they were doing something in exchange for their own boat. I knew it sounded simplistic, naïve for me, but after meeting the Commander, I didn't worry about these things, much. I felt I could let go a little more of the past every day, because he was giving us a future. The looks on the guys' faces, when I told them about how he picked up my Mom's picture, asked my name. They beamed, when I said Adama thought we needed all the mechanics we could get. Even the deadpan Mangan grinned a little on that one. Needless to say, I omitted the part where I nearly burst into tears. A cloud parted, letting in a little bit of hope. We could reconcile the past, because we had a future, now. Even if some of the guys still didn't believe in Earth, we still believed we would outrun the Cylons, someday.

We still needed parts, an engineer, a running list of materials, personnel, and services, though. Bill Adama wasn't supplying that, the new government was. The same government that caved in to a terrorist, gave him a ship, and promised elections in seven months, was going to "address our needs." One of their representatives was coming, and we cleaned the Lady from stem to stern. She was getting the grand tour. Stengler wanted her to see where all the problems lied first hand. Jeffers usually handled these things, but after he gave this bureaucrat the walkabout up top, one of us would give her the tour of the engine and FTL rooms. I was unanimously elected. Also, Caff came up with a good idea. To make the rep feel a little at ease, we all jotted our questions down on slips of paper, and put them in a shoebox. Lucky me was elected to read all the questions to this person. I always talked up to company stiffs, personnel lackeys and any other suits that came aboard for training, company feedback meetings, etc. Some of the other guys did too, especially Caff and Mangan. I was selected to be Mr. Congeniality, though, because, as Mangan put it, I was a good bullshitter. Everybody thought it was a great idea. After breakfast, at 06:30, we all pushed folding tables out of the way, arranged the chairs in front of the hatch leading to CiC. Any minute, we were going to get some kind of answer from the Office of the President.

I sat with the box in my lap, filled to the top with single-folded scraps of paper. This person was probably going to put the spin on. Just make the suit stay on track. Jeffers would probably try to speed this meeting along, interrupt and throw his two cents in where it wasn't needed, just like when company suits would board. That's okay. He wanted to hurry up everything and get us out anybody's line of sight, but I wouldn't let him throw me off my game. I didn't want to be the lone voice of everyone sitting around me, but I was, and that was that.

Most of the questions were about ship needs, but there was a good chunk about Zarek, elections, Earth. I just hoped no one tried to be an asshole when they scribbled down their queries.

The Captain came through the double doors, and we grew quiet, in spite of myself, I noticed I sat straight up in my seat. I saw Mangan's brow furrow. Caff made his face extra blank, and the other guys wore furrowed brows, or blinked. Thankfully, Marty didn't shoot his mouth off, and no one hung their heads.

"Okay, everybody," Stengler said, gesturing to his left. "This is Diana Thalyka, representative of the President."

The face of the President's Office was a delicately built young woman, about five years or more younger than me, and barely older than Marty. Hard lines and dark circles showed under her gray eyes, in stark contrast to a graceful definition of cheekbones and jaw line. She was sharp and professional, in a crisp gray suit, white blouse. Dressed for success. Upon closer inspection, it was easy to see the chinks in her professional armor. Wisps of hair, reflecting the harsh overhead lights, came out from her tight bun, along the sides of her face. A thin run snaked up her stockings, along her right shinbone. Her pink lipstick looked like a doll's mouth, painted on, in stark contrast to her pale skin. She smiled, broadly, shaking everyone's hands as we introduced ourselves, cradling battered manilla folders embossed with the Colonial Seal in her other arm.

She came to me, I slid the shoebox under my seat, and stood. She grasped my hand firmly, assertively, but her palm was sweaty, and so many criss-crossing lines of red cracked the whites of her eyes, she looked as if she was beginning to shatter, from the inside out.

It didn't matter how well she penciled in her features, or how many teeth she revealed with every smile. She was ragged,

Finally, Caff took her hand in two of his, smiling warmly. I was impressed. I think he really meant it.

"We're glad you're here, Miss…?"

"Thalyka," she finished for him. The muscles in her long neck tensed a little as Caff released her hand.

"Right," Caff continued. "I'm James Caffrey, the Foreman, which is our answer to a deck chief, basically. What we did, to make it a little easier on you, we decided to put all our questions in a big box, and we'd have Jay over here read them off, and you could answer them."

"Well," she said, "that's what I'm here for."

Everybody was seated, once again, and felt like a jackass standing there, with our shoebox o' inquiry. I unfolded the first question. It was in Nick's handwriting. I wanted to smack him.

It read: "Anything you can do about the girl to guy ratio on this tub?"

I cleared my throat, and looked up at Diana Thalyka, of the Office of the President. I pretended to read the letters in my hand.

"Is…there any chance of setting up a network…in which we can possibly post notices for additional personnel if, uh, necessary?"

Diana Thalyka took a deep breath, then spoke evenly, making all the right hand gestures that politicians do, her expression almost making me believe she was calm, confident. Almost.

"Obviously, the first priority we've had is finalizing a list of all survivors. That list will eventually contain information such as each passenger's previous occupation, as well. Obviously, networks are currently forbidden in light of the Cylon situation, however, you bring up a good point, and I will look into whether a system for distributing requests for personnel throughout the fleet can be implemented."

She will "look into" things. Great. She sure knew how to give a non-answer. Well, she wasn't the only one who could give a fake smile. I knew she wouldn't give anything more definite than that. The tour down below could possibly make a difference, but it was best to move for now. I pulled the next one.

"Why did we negotiate with Tom Zarek when he is a known terrorist? What will happen if somebody else takes hostages?"

I was hoping this wouldn't come up until last, but it needed addressed. Why should we have faith in appeasers? Laura Roslin didn't get us out from under the Cylon shadow.

She paused, taking a deep breath, but she barely hesitated in her answer.

"As you may know, during the water crisis, we required their assistance in mining the ice. However, as Zarek and his fellow prisoners were headed to Caprica for parole hearings at the time of the Cylon attacks, the President felt they should have the chance to redeem themselves and earn their eventual freedom as they might have if they had reached

Caprica."

She made eye contact with the other guys, stepped closer, and continued.

"She offered them the chance to work in return for earning points towards their freedom, and Zarek snubbed the offer in favor of taking the entire delegation hostage. However, the President feels very strongly that there should be no negotiation with terrorists, and had in fact given the order for a military attempt to be made to free the hostages. The choice to negotiate with Tom Zarek was made by not by the President herself, but rather by a long officer from the Galactica who was among the hostages, and we had no control over his actions."

She didn't flinch, didn't blink. I gave her credit. We turned the heat on early, and whatever weakness she conveyed earlier was buried deep. I didn't see why the President, our so-called fearless leader just didn't tell officer-whoever that he overstepped his bounds, but, evidently, Adama rolled with it, so maybe it wasn't a bad idea. The prisoners were in pressure suits doing some of the most dangerous repair work there is. At least they were being productive. But, why give them the whole damn ship?

"What about the Astral Queen?"

She turned back to me.

"Regarding the handover of the Astral Queen to the prisoners, it makes things safer for all concerned. The Astral Queen knows it is in her best interests to remain with the fleet, and be on their best behavior. Removing everyone but the prisoners from the ship does not mean they are no longer under guard. It simply means that humans are spared that dangerous task, and it is left to Galactica's guns. Regarding the elections process, that part we will honor because it is what we would have done anyways. The Articles require it. We will be holding elections because we choose to honor the Articles, not because of Mr. Zarek's wishes."

"Why did we negotiate with Tom Zarek when he is a known terrorist? What will happen if somebody else takes hostages?""

My first thoughts upon hearing that question is "Godsdammit, I'm NOT the Press Secretary or anything of the sort!". But maybe I am, among other things. And the question has been asked. Somehow, it has to be answered….Dammit if she wants to use me as this among other things she could at least give me the frakking answers she wants given to such questions. But she didn't.

"As you may know, during the water crisis, we required their assistance in mining the ice. However, as Zarek and his fellow prisoners were headed to Caprica for parole hearings at the time of the Cylon attacks, the President felt they should have the chance to redeem themselves and earn their eventual freedom as they might have if they had reached Caprica. She offered them the chance to work in return for earning points towards their freedom, and Zarek snubbed the offer in favor of taking the entire delegation hostage. However, the President feels very strongly that there should be no negotiation with terrorists, and had in fact given the order for a military attempt to be made to free the hostages. The choice to negotiate with Tom Zarek was made by not by the President herself, but rather by a long officer from the Galactica who was among the hostages, and se had no control over his actions."

"If she had no control over his actions, why did she later choose to honor his deal with Zarek?"

Dammit, I hate this job. I hate. I hate it. I hate it. I'm not ready! I'm not informed enough by the President!

"Regarding the handover of the Astral Queen to the prisoners, it makes things safer for all concerned. The Astral Queen knows it is in her best interests to remain with the fleet, and be on their best behavior. Removing everyone but the prisoners from the ship does not mean they are no longer under guard…It simply means that humans are spared that dangerous task, and it is left to Galactica's guns. Regarding the elections process, that part we will honor because it is what we would have done anyways. The Articles require it. We will be holding elections because we will honor the Articles, not because of Mr. Zarek's wishes."

Not completely true, that last part, I suspect. But all I can say. And in my heart, not a lie really, either. Because "we" includes me, and I will honor the Articles until the day I die….however soon that may be.

A blond man with a tattoo off to the left raises his hand and asks "So that means if they try anything funky, Galactica'll blast 'em outta the sky, right?", and I resist the urge to sigh. That's what I just said, wasn't it, when I spoke of them now being guarded "by Galactica's guns"? Resisting the urge to sigh, I answer again.

"If the threaten the rest of the civilian fleet, yes, Galactica will deal with them."

The rest of their questions, thankfully, concerned the usual things….Food and water rationing, medical care, parts, personnel, and the like. Inside my mind there was a silent sigh of relief, as we continued with the "typical" stuff. The things I HAD been told the answers to, had been told the facts of. Finally, the last question was pulled from the box….

"Our rations will run out in two weeks. When can we expect more, and what sort of schedule will be set up for restocking from the fleet?"

Facts again, and still. Simple facts. Nothing like 'Why did we negotiate with Tom Zarek'. Thank the Lords of Kobol.

"Schedules will be distributed to all vessels within two days regarding permanent schedules for the replenishing of food, fuel, and water. If your food and water supplies will last another two weeks you have nothing to worry about, we intend to have restocked all ships by the end of next week."

The inevitable shaking of hands and exchanges of nods, once more, as the crew dispersed back to their duties, save the man who had been reading the questions to me.

The hard part was over. And I couldn't help but think of my mother for a moment How she used to tell me stories when I was a little girl of her first days as a Viper pilot, and her first times in combat. I understood what she said about how she felt and how she reacted to it all so much more now, and it was almost eerie. I had chosen not to follow her into the Fleet and a long line of pilots, captivated instead from a young age by the government and officials my father covered on the nightly news. But now…I was facing my own trial by fire, just the same.

He turned to me, and held out a hand, which I grasped in my 200th handshake of the day.

"Jay Krenzik. I'm one of the mechanics on board the Lady. Ready to begin your tour, Diana?"

"Certainly."

I (and my guard behind me, silent as always) followed him out the door into another corridor, again, nearly as thin and narrow as the aisle on Colonial One. Eventually, it led us to a grated catwalk overlooking the main engine, or what I assumed was the main engine, at any rate. I stepped out onto the catwalk, following him…and nearly fell flat on my face as my shoe caught in the grating.

His head turned back, and saw me recovering from my near-fall, pulling my shoe heel out of the gap in the catwalk…

"You may wish to remove your shoes, until we're down in the main engine room."

All the questions, I had handled. Without more than the briefest pause. But now, I couldn't help but pause in shock. Remove my shoes? In front of him? In front of any Colonial citizen, on the job?

"Don't worry. I'll make it."

"There's a ladder, Diana."

I followed his pointing finger to one of the most dangerous-looking ladders I had ever seen, let alone been on. Hiding my discomfort at doing so, I reached down and removed the shoes, tucking them under one arm along with the folders. We continued along the catwalk until we reached the ladder, and then I followed him down into the depths of the engine room itself.

My first thought, before stepping off the ladder, was how hot it was. I'd been on ships kept too warm, and ships kept too cold, even within this one day. But never to date had I been in an area so totally broiling hot. If the air on the rest of this ship had been nearly as bad as Colonial One's, the air down here was as bad, stuffy and poorly recycled, and on top of it all was boiling hot, which at least Colonial One wasn't. As he led me away from the ladder, sweat began to coat my face in a glistening sheen, and I reached up a hand in spite of myself to tug my collar away from my skin.

Diana was wound way too tight. I should have thought of this before, but it was a good bet that she had never seen the guts of a ship before, let alone the old girl she visited now. Her white skin shined with new sweat, as I extended my hand and helped down the last two steps of the ladder. In the heat, the perfume she wore became more noticeable. She gave off a delicate scent of flowers.

So far, so good. Down here in the belly of the beast, feeling the effects of clogged air filters was the best way to get new ones faster. I made a note to keep her moving through this as fast as I could. I doubted she would be in a receptive mood if her makeup started running. The secret service man behind her shadowed us unobtrusively. I barely noticed he was there once I started showing her the main turbine. At one point, I almost wanted to stick a mirror under his nose to see if he actually breathed.

She craned her neck up, into the stark white acetylene lights, making her alabaster skin all the more pallid. Underneath the veneer of professional face paint, and the wear and tear, was a pretty woman. I pushed the thought aside and got down to business, she obviously had no clue what she was looking at.

"Okay, Diana. Now feel free to interject at any time and ask me anything. There's no stupid questions, except those not asked."

The pink line of her mouth upturned in a slight smile.

"Well, I'm sure I will have plenty. Such as: is it normally this hot down here?"

Sweet! She saved me the preamble on problem number one.

"No. Generally, it is the warmest area of the ship, but our air filters were due to get changed in port on Tauron before the attack. Now, they're clogged. Down here is where someone will notice the most. The biggest problem is that we work with a lot of industrial lubricants and solvents. If this goes on much longer, it could become hazardous to even come in here. Plus, when we have to weld, there's nowhere for the smoke to go."

Her eyes widened a little and she nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"How long until it reaches those dangerous levels?"

We probably had a month, at the outside.

"Inside of ten days, and that's the bestcase scenario," I told her.

"We're having a similar problem on Colonial One. Could you tell me how our filters would last?"

On a passenger ship like that, they had two months, maybe more.

"Well," I replied, pondering. "Since you're just a passenger ship, with no caustic emissions, I'd say you have as much as two weeks, assuming you're not running buggies and your septic system is in good working order."

Before the last words were out of my mouth, she was scribbling again.

"We'll get this taken care of," she said, with conviction that actually sounded genuine. Good.

I wasn't lying. Things were going downhill pretty fast. I was crunching everything down into a more exciting timetable. If you told the company a month, you'd get it in six weeks. The government was even worse.

Now, the stage was set to introduce the Lady's get-up-and-go. The main turbine was about two raptors in width and about eight in length. I wasn't going to bother telling her about how the shafts went underneath us, and then out to the thrusters, I would just lose her. I started with our second biggest problem. The main coolant line.

"Okay, you see that huge pipe?"

She nodded.

"That brings water from the tanks, into another big tank in the guts above us, where it mixes with this stuff that's basically antifreeze for spaceships, right?"

"Okay."

"That mix goes through that huge pipe, then," I continued, pointing at the metal lines that spidered down into the core."

She held her stack of folders against her chest and leaned forward to look.

"It looks like these lines are patched up."

I nodded. Good. She wasn't totally lost.

"During the five day run, we had to patch these lines up. They will need replaced soon. Probably within the month."

Given that most of the wear and tear was on the FTL, these days, the patches could probably hold for two months, but hey, the squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?

"The main problem that needs addressed ASAP, is the main line. All these computers and sensors tell us not only that something already went wrong, but what may go wrong soon. This main line is wired to indicate weaknesses in the tensile strength of any point inside. If this line ruptures when we're under regular power, we got a mess. If it blows while attempting a jump, well, let's just hope no other ship is nearby. And I'd hope you guys would have a toast for us after the memorial service."

I grinned a little at that, but she just creased her brow then suddenly gave a terse smile, as if she needed to remember how. Oh well, we'd just continue.

"At several points along the pipe here, you see those big, three-foot long iron collars. Those are bolted on, then welded in place, so the sensor alert will cut off, since the weak spot is reinforced. Those aren't supposed to be permanent. Ideally, those segments of line should be replaced upon return to port."

"How long can they last, though," she asked.

Those collars can go for a month, but after that someone was playing with fire.

"Well, that's the other big reason why we're glad you're here. These patches probably won't last another week. It's a big deal to have to patch the line twice on a run. Toby, our welder, had to patch this line in eight places. This line is junk. It needs torn out, the core flushed, and finally replaced. Or the next time the Cylons show up, the Lady may not make it out."

That was 100 true. A month was no guarantee, but in six years, I had never seen a patch rupture before making it back to port on a week run, but the line needed torn out as soon as we could do it.

Diana Thalyka, the Chairperson of the joint chiefs of bullshit, or whatever her title was scribbled for a long time on her folder, this time.

"How many patches did you say?"

"Eight."

"And how many is generally considered, um, normal."

"One."

I noticed sweat was starting finally bead on her forehead.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Diana, you would be a lot more comfortable if you took your jacket off."

"Okay, Diana. Now feel free to interject at any time and ask me anything. There's no stupid questions, except those not asked."

I can't help but smile slightly at that. Frankly, in the last few days, I've heard TON of stupid questions that should never have been asked.

"Well, I'm sure I will have plenty. Such as: Is it normally this hot down here?"

"No. Generally, it is the warmest area of the ship, but our air filters were due to get changed in port on Tauron before the attack. Now, they're clogged. Down here is where someone will notice the most. The biggest problem is that we work with a lot of industrial lubricants and solvents. If this goes on much longer, it could become hazardous to even come in here. Plus, when we have to weld, there's nowhere for the smoke to go."

Wonderful. Just wonderful. So much for smaller ships have less issues.

"How long until it reaches those dangerous levels?"

"Inside of ten days, and that's the bestcase scenario,"

Even worse. I flipped to the paper on which I was writing urgent requests—things that had to be handled within the week or lives would be lost. Ships that had only two days water left, or three days food, or a day's worth of fuel. Or in this case, a dodgy air filter.

"We'll get this taken care of."

Something had been nagging at the back of my mind, she he first mentioned the airfilter, and certainly since he began discussing it as a potentially fatal issue….

"We're having a similar problem on Colonial One. Could you tell me how our filters would last?"

I couldn't help but think about how the air on this ship reminded me almost exactly of Colonial One's air, stuffy and close and slightly harder than normal to breathe. The only difference was that the air here was tinged with the unpleasant scents of chemicals and smoke, not sweat, perfumes and whiteboard markers.

"Well, since you're just a passenger ship, with no caustic emissions, I'd say you have as much as two weeks, assuming you're not running buggies and your septic system is in good working order."

I next found myself looking at a huge thing that could have fit several Raptor's inside of it, if it was hollow.

"Okay, you see that huge pipe? That brings water from the tanks, into another big tank in the guts above us, where it mixes with this stuff that's basically antifreeze for spaceships, right?"

"Okay."

"That mix goes through that huge pipe, then,"

I leaned forward to see, noticing the odd portions that looked just like the pipes in my old apartment after the plumber was done with them.

"It looks like these lines are patched up."

"During the five day run, we had to patch these lines up. They will need replaced soon. Probably within the month. The main problem that needs addressed ASAP, is the main line. All these computers and sensors tell us not only that something already went wrong, but what may go wrong soon. This main line is wired to indicate weaknesses in the tensile strength of any point inside. If this line ruptures when we're under regular power, we got a mess. If it blows while attempting a jump, well, let's just hope no other ship is nearby. And I'd hope you guys would have a toast for us after the memorial service."

He had poor taste in humor it seemed. Very poor. He wouldn't have made that joke, I would hope, if he had had to attend the memorial service a few weeks ago, right after the Cylon attacks, like I did. If he had seen the bodies laid out on Galactica's decks in a seemingly endless row, and the empty helmets of the fallen pilots, all of it real…and all of it symbolic as well of so many more dead.

"At several points along the pipe here, you see those big, three-foot long iron collars. Those are bolted on, then welded in place, so the sensor alert will cut off, since the weak spot is reinforced. Those aren't supposed to be permanent. Ideally, those segments of line should be replaced upon return to port."

"How long can they last, though,"

I prayed that they would last longer than the filters would ,apparently. Food and water and fuel we could get those desperate ships that needed them, in time. I honestly didn't know if we could find the parts they needed by his deadlines.

"Well, that's the other big reason why we're glad you're here. These patches probably won't last another week. It's a big deal to have to patch the line twice on a run. Toby, our welder, had to patch this line in eight places. This line is junk. It needs torn out, the core flushed, and finally replaced. Or the next time the Cylons show up, the Lady may not make it out."

Another scribble on the "urgent" sheet. Damn.

"How many patches did you say?"

"Eight."

"And how many is generally considered, um, normal."

"One."

The heat was becoming unbearable, and the sweat was now dripping off my forehead onto my neck and my jacket.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Diana, you would be a lot more comfortable if you took your jacket off."

This time, I couldn't help it. I did stare for a moment, like a small animal caught up in car headlights. The shoes had been bad enough. But….take off the jacket?

"I'll be fine."

From the look on his face he didn't buy it. And with every passing moment neither did I. But his request was for the kind of thing that was simply not done.

"Seriously. You look very uncomfortable, and, given that nice clothes are at a premium, you wouldn't want to continue to sweat, and stain your blouse. It's a little cooler down below in the FTL room, but not much."

Dammit. This isn't a Cabinet post, and this isn't the Twelve Colonies, and this isn't the human race any more. This isn't life. It's the pursuit of not being dead—Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing is the same anymore….Nothing is the same. With a sign, I look over at my guard.

"Would you hold my papers for a moment, Larry?"

He grunted out a "Yes, Miss Thalyka," and took my papers. Was the most words I'd ever heard him speak to anyone, even the President.

I peel out of my jacket like a snake shedding it's skin, and the difference in temperature is shocking. It's still incredibly hot…but not nearly so much so as it was moments before.

He looked at me again for a moment, concern showing on his face, and then led me to another room…and stopped at the doorway with a look of supreme annoyance on his face, at the smoke that was thick inside the room. He backed away and led me towards a different room instead, one with a water cooler and….a stack of paper cups! A few days ago, during the water crisis, I would have had eyes only for the water. Now, with water not a problem for the foreseeable future, I had eyes only for the cup. It's strange, how quickly things change here, now, in this new reality. So strange. 'Long term' in politics used to be very long indeed, maybe even more than a lifetime, for some issues. Now, 'long term' was the next month, even just the next week. But maybe things haven't changed that much after all, in absolute terms. Long term as the length of a lifetime or more. Because the length of a lifetime is so much shorter now. I could die today. Two minutes from now, tomorrow, next week, at the hands of the Cylons. The odds of any of us living out this year are so small that I don't even care to think of them.

"Where did you find paper cups?"

"We have a small surplus. We don't use them much, really."

I took the cup from him, and sipped the water, though water I really wanted to do was gulp the whole cup and perhaps even the whole cooler's worth of water. But I couldn't. Dammit, I was missing my jacket and had recently been seen not wearing shoes. I would be damned if I was going to add to it all my chugging water like a nine year old.

"Also, Diana, if you need to freshen up, the restroom is right behind me."

I looked over at where he was pointing, and shook my head, truthfully this time. I wanted to get back to the issue of the cups.

"What was the rest of your cargo, and surpluses? Besides paper cups?"

I knew her face would light up. I still kept "mum" on the toilet paper, but I the Captain told us the day before he would turn over an entire cargo manifest upon her arrival. She probably just forgot she had it in her stack of paperwork.

"Well, make sure you ask the Captain or Jeffers for a manifest on the way out, for full details," I said, nodding toward the cooler. Diana handed me her cup, and I refilled it. She took it back and resumed her champagne sipping. I fought an urge to quip that she didn't have her pinkie out, but I'd already looked like an ass trying to be funny, once already.

"We're carrying mainly shuttle parts, I think blank circuit boards. I know some electronic time clocks, some general industrial control components, that sort of thing, are up there, too."

Her eyes lit up. We could do some business for a while.

"Make sure I get a cargo manifest, before I leave."

I nodded. She carefully crunched the cup in her hand, almost as though she had followed through with a carefully planned motion for each finger, before walking over to the trash can, and letting it roll off her fingers and down in.

The way she drank, walked, smiled, crumpled that cup, dressed, balked at taking off her jacket, it was all a part of a life she had thrust upon her when the bombs dropped.

Over here, even Marty, who was still learning to fit in, was a mechanic before the Cylons hit, and he was a mechanic afterward. What was she?

"So what did you do before?"

"Excuse me?"

It was an abrupt transition I'd made, I thought I had overstepped my bounds, but it had already been asked, so I repeated.

"Before the bombs dropped. Before all this."

She smiled, a little nervously, held her files against her chest.

"I, was. . .I was the junior most of the junior at the Department of InterColonial Relations. I had been there six months--straight out of college. The only reason I went to Galactica's decommissioning was that no one else wanted to be bothered."

Diana's eyes tracked along the floor, her expression softened.

I admit, I was taken aback. If she was considered the official mouthpiece of Laura Roslin, former Secretary of Education, and now President, then what was everybody else? Yeah, it was a mess, all the way around but they rolled up their sleeves, and they were trying to get something done.

"I can imagine that you must feel a little overwhelmed. I mean, you're in the Cabinet, now. I don't think any of you probably imagined that, or any of this."

She smiled wanly, but when her eyes met mine, I could see a real dignity behind them, the person that maybe never would have been found if the Colonies were anything more than dead worlds behind us.

"Any of this? No…never. As for the Cabinet…someday, perhaps. 30, 40 years in the future. Certainly not so soon. But regarding the rest, I'll give you a piece of advice."

"Yes?"

"People can rise to situations they never thought you could. And sometimes the difference between success and failure is the faith you show in them, the trust you place in them, that they know you've placed in them."

"I saw that kid at the end of the line. The way you look at him. It's understandable. But if you can, try something. Try backing off. Try treating him like any other one of the guys. Let him know you trust him, let him know you expect nothing less than that he will do his job and pull his own weight. Sometimes it's exactly that seemingly harsh touch that makes someone feel more comfortable, makes them more competent and confident, strange as it may seem."

"Yeah. I never really looked at it that way. A kid like Marty's just so damn odd. It's like we don't know what to do with him. He does a good job and everything, but we just thought he was kind of fragile. Maybe we're making him that way."

"I wouldn't say you're making him that way. But you could be encouraging it. By treating him as the kid you tell him he can BE the kid. If you stop treating him that way...you're telling him he's not allowed to be that way anymore. And in this world, now...None of us can be that way, anymore."

She hadn't been around us hardly at all, but yeah, she was right, about Marty. We acted like he was going to explode. Mangan, never entrusted him with anything and bitched at him, because he thought he'd never learn. I, Toby, and even Caff, sheltered him, because we were waiting for some mystical shining moment when he was "ready." He was ready now. We all had to be. I thought of that day I lost Mom's picture. Marty was sick of being treated like a kid. He wanted us to depend on him, he knew that he had to grow up fast. We were just the last ones to see it. Then I remembered seeing the old man with the Commander's insignia on his collar

"You ever meet Commander Adama?"

"Yes, briefly, at the memorial service before the Cylon fleet came after us. We just shook hands, were introduced, that kind of thing."

I recalled the unwavering purpose in his eyes, and pictured that same man among the caskets, before they were jettisoned into space.

"Well, I met him on Galactica, when Marty and I went to put pictures on The Wall."

I told her about him finding my Mom's picture, asking my name, and the last thing he said that let me face "what next."

"He told me 'Good. This fleet needs all the mechanics it can get. You keep your mother and everyone we left behind close. They're with us. Always. Don't ever forget that."

A breath slowly, almost in audibly escaped through her parted lips.

"Wow."

"Yeah. He went on his way, then." I swallowed, and my throat felt too dry. I decided then to tell her the last part--what my crewmates would never hear.

"I just stood there for a minute, holding Mom's picture, and tears were in my eyes. It took everything not to burst out crying."

"Why?"

She leaned forward a little bit, lips pursed, as though it took great effort to maintain her decorum in light of needing to know.

"Because I knew I could believe in something more than just making it to the next day. One look in his eyes, and I knew that Earth was real. That we can all hold up our end, and make it work."

And then I added: "And you can too."

"Well, make sure you ask the Captain or Jeffers for a manifest on the way out, for full details,"

I handed him my cup for a refill, and resumed sipping my water, my mouth still crying out 'Chug that sucker!' and my brain still overriding it.

"We're carrying mainly shuttle parts, I think blank circuit boards. I know some electronic time clocks, some general industrial control components, that sort of thing, are up there, too."

Shuttle parts! With the exception of airfilters, I don't think I could have asked for a better cargo to find, for the welfare of the fleet as a whole.

"Make sure I get a cargo manifest, before I leave."

He nodded to me, and I carefully crumpled my cup and tossed it into the trash. I'd find more water on the next ship…No need to look like a pig on this one.

"So what did you do before?"

"Excuse me?"

His question was so surprising, so jarring, so abrupt a subject change. My father was a reporter: Even before entering public life, I'd been skilled at graceful subject changes, for as long as I could remember.

"Before the bombs dropped. Before all this."

Before all this. A few weeks ago. A lifetime ago. The lifetime I would have lived, otherwise….And the lifetimes of the billions who died on the Colonies, and the thousands who have died since.

"I, was. . .I was the junior most of the junior at the Department of InterColonial Relations. I had been there six months--straight out of college. The only reason I went to Galactica's decommissioning was that no one else wanted to be bothered."

His face changes then, interestingly enough. Suddenly I can see respect in his eyes, sliding across the previous doubt and scorn like a curtain being drawn.

"I can imagine that you must feel a little overwhelmed. I mean, you're in the Cabinet, now. I don't think any of you probably imagined that, or any of this."

How can I answer that? Very carefully. Say nothing…I seem a snob. Say what I wish to, what I long to say, to admit, to anyone, and I am finished if it ever gets back to the President…and finished in my own mind even if it doesn't.

"Any of this? No…never. As for the Cabinet…someday, perhaps. 30, 40 years in the future. Certainly not so soon. But regarding the rest, I'll give you a piece of advice."

Here, I know I am treading dangerously close to being unprofessional. To getting too friendly. But I feel this needs to be said, because maybe it will help them here Help some of what are now my people.

"Yes?"

"People can rise to situations they never thought they could. And sometimes the difference between success and failure is the faith you show in them, the trust you place in them, that they know you've placed in them."

I pause for a moment, then decide to get bolder still, for an instant.

"I saw that kid at the end of the row. The way you look at him. It's understandable. But if you can, try something. Try backing off. Try treating him like any other one of the guys. Let him know you trust him, let him know you expect nothing less than that he will do his job and pull his own weight. Sometimes it's exactly that seemingly harsh touch that makes someone feel more comfortable, makes them more competent and confident, strange as it may seem."

"Yeah. I never really looked at it that way. A kid like Marty's just so damn odd. It's like we don't know what to do with him. He does a good job and everything, but we just thought he was kind of fragile. Maybe we're making him that way."

"I wouldn't say you're making him that way. But you could be encouraging it. By treating him as the kid you tell him he can BE the kid. If you stop treating him that way...you're telling him he's not allowed to be that way anymore. And in this world, now...None of us can be that way, anymore."

"You ever meet Commander Adama?"

"Yes, briefly, at the memorial service before the Cylon fleet came after us. We just shook hands, were introduced, that kind of thing."

"Well, I met him on Galactica, when Marty and I went to put pictures on The Wall."

The Wall. I'd heard about The Wall. We all had. We'd all been too busy to go over there and put our things up, though, so far. I had my family photo, of me and mom and dad, in the corner of the bottom of my carry-on, along with my photo of my boyfriend, Mike, and some old movie ticket stubs. I could put them on The Wall, sometime. But I won't. Because the people who put things on The Wall, they go there again often, I've heard, to pay their respects, like a shrine. But my life, my position, it doesn't allow me the time to go jaunt off the Galactica every week for a visit. So if I ever want to see those things again, I have to keep them with me. My own personal shrine, to what I had lost. The Wall, on a smaller scale.

His story continued, and I couldn't help but feel impressed that the Commander would take time out to do such things.

"He told me 'Good. This fleet needs all the mechanics it can get. You keep your mother and everyone we left behind close. They're with us. Always. Don't ever forget that."

Hearing those words, I can only think one thing, for a moment. 'They're with us, always'. I'm too many things bundled in one, but I used to be DICR, and what they did is still a big part of my job now, even though it's now interfacing and resolving things between ships, not planets and local Colonial Governors. So I hope the former Secretary of InterColonial Relations is with me now, I hope someday I can look in the mirror and know without a doubt that she'd be proud of the job I'm doing. But I keep that all to myself. Lost deep in thought, all I can think of to say to him is "Wow."

"Yeah. He went on his way, then…"

He paused for a moment, as if he were debating something very serious, something very personal. Then he spoke again.

"I just stood there for a minute, holding Mom's picture, and tears were in my eyes. It took everything not to burst out crying."

"Why?"

"Because I knew I could believe in something more than just making it to the next day. One look in his eyes, and I knew that Earth was real. That we can all hold up our end, and make it work. And you can too."

It's an awkward moment. Very awkward. Because I don't believe in Earth. I believe in the President. I believe in the Commander. I believe in the Articles. I don't believe in Earth. I doubt I ever will. But HE has to believe. They all have to believe. Because I don't have to believe in Earth, to fight to live. Because I'm fighting to live for them, for the good of the people of the Twelve Colonies. But they have to believe. Because they need something to fight to live for, too. A few moments more of silence, and then he speaks again.

"Ready to see the FTL Room?"

"Yes, please."

All I can hope is that nothing in there needs to go on the urgent list. But somehow, I doubt I'll be that lucky. In fact, as I follow him out, I already have the corner of the "Urgent" paper sticking up from the others, making it easier to find, just in case.

The FTL room was easy. The drive core was under us. We couldn't touch it. You needed an engineer for that. I told her so. She scribbled down on her folder, when I told her we needed more boards and chipsets to keep the stardrive's brain running. I do wish Mangan hadn't been smoking right under the no-smoking sign, as usual, when we came down the ladder. Some visuals are just ill-timed.

I smiled, when Diana headed down the ladder after me, this time. She took her shoes off without comment, and came right down, as though she had been doing it every day for years. Afterward, I escorted her back up the catwalk, through the mess, back to the CiC hatch.

"Well," she said, grinning. This time I knew this smile was spin-free. She may have actually liked some small part of being here. "This is it. I promise we'll get you what you need as fast as we can. We do need all the mechanics we can get."

I laughed. My hands found their way into my pockets.

"I don't put trust in organizations or symbols. I do trust people though. Not many, but you're one of them."

She stood up a little straighter. I don't think she knew she was doing it, but she held her chin up a little higher as I extended my hand, and we shook. This time, her palm was warm and dry, her grip confident. My fingers lingered for a moment, but I withdrew them before I thought too many breaths had passed.

This boat needed women.

"Thanks for time, Di-Miss Thalyka."

She laughed softly, and shook her head.

"Finally, you caught on. Look. If, for some reason, we bump into one another, and I'm not in front of my colleagues, or whatever, it's okay if you call me Diana. Otherwise…"

I nodded, and smirked. I carefully looked over my shoulder, then at her guard.

"Promise you won't say anything, okay," I asked him.

He just stood there, keeping his vigil, as always.

"Our office will be back in touch. Jay," she said.

I realized it then, that she hadn't called me by name since I took her down below. I could feel a blush coming on.

"You have a safe flight back,"

I turned back toward the catwalk, the engine room, and my purpose, as Diana Thalyka rejoined the Captain, headed to her Raptor.

We both had a lot of work to do, to keep this fleet running.

To my great surprise (and relief) nothing in the FTL room has to go on the dreaded "Urgent" sheet, although I write it all down on one of the other papers. In fact the only really difficult thing about the FTL Room was keeping my mouth from dropping open as we entered and there was a man smoking….directly under a "No Smoking" sign. Too weird.

When the time comes to depart the FTL Room, and the ship, I follow him out, taking my shoes off for the journey over the ladders and the catwalk without comment. I'm not really any more at ease with it than I was before….I'm just getting better at hiding it. I pause to put the shoes and the jacket back on as soon as we are off the catwalk, and then continue to follow him, down the twisted maze of tiny corridors, through the mess, and finally all the way to the hatch to CiC to meet up again with the Captain, who would escort me the airlock where by Raptor was waiting.

"Well, this is it. I promise we'll get you what you need as fast as we can. We do need all the mechanics we can get."

"I don't put trust in organizations or symbols. I do trust people though. Not many, but you're one of them."

He extends his hand, and I shake it once more.

"Thanks for time, Di-Miss Thalyka."

Finally. It certainly took him long enough. But strangely, now that he's finally caught on, I almost want to make him take it back, at least here and now. Because there's something about hearing one's name spoken that makes one feel human, feel real, feel connected.

"Finally, you caught on. Look. If, for some reason, we bump into one another, and I'm not in front of my colleagues, or whatever, it's okay if you call me Diana. Otherwise…"

He nods, then looks over at my guard.

"Promise you won't say anything, okay,"

There is, naturally, no reply from my bodyguard. I, however, have to resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I manage to keep a straight face, and a steady voice, in my next words.

"Our office will be back in touch….."

I was about to go the normal route, the typical route the correct route, my mind tells me. But at the last minute, I decide not to. Because I remember what I was just thinking. About how hearing your name makes you feel real…..

"……. Jay."

"You have a safe flight back,"

He turns then, walking back down the tiny corridors, towards the engine room. For my part, I face the hatch to CiC, wait as it is opened for me, and shake hands again with the Captain, before he leads me away to the airlock.

21 ships down. Only another 40-something to go.


End file.
